


Not To Survive. To Live.

by EllaStorm



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst and Porn, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: In a dark ship’s hold at Dunkirk, Alex lies awake and waits for the flood that will take him and Tommy home.





	Not To Survive. To Live.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meereswiederkaeuer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Meereswiederkaeuer).



> This is a Christmas gift to my talented friend @meereswiederkaeuer (check out her awesome drawing skills here: http://meereswiederkaeuer.tumblr.com/). Her prompt for it was, roughly speaking "Gibson and Tommy are lovers at Dunkirk; Alex is the third wheel. Porny angst, please."  
> I hope you'll enjoy the emotional suffering Alex is doing in this story, dear Meere.  
> Merry Christmas and all my love to you :*

It took a certain type of bravery to sleep in the middle of a war.

Alex had never met anyone who was particularly good at it, unless they’d had at least three sleepless nights behind them and could barely walk. And even then, there was still a lot of tossing and turning and whimpering involved. Reason for that were the dreams, of course, the ones Alex had, too. But they sure weren’t the only reason. Falling asleep meant being vulnerable for an extended period of time. And being vulnerable – that much even the daftest fuckwit had understood after barely a week of this war – being vulnerable got you killed.

Which meant that, more accurately, sleeping in the middle of a war required recklessness. Alex wasn’t reckless. That’s why he was alive. So it wasn’t exactly surprising, either, that he never slept good; even less surprising on the ever colourless, drenched beaches of Dunkirk, where any Gerry and their Mum could drop a bomb on your head under best visibility conditions any hour of the day.

Here, it was better. Marginally.

The dark, musty ship’s hold provided them with at least a little more cover and the thought of going home, _home,_ made the images in Alex’s head – _in a minute Germans might be dropping hand grenades through the hatch up there and blow us all to bleeding, screaming pieces_ – bearable. This place was far removed from a safe haven of any sort, but the idea of resting didn’t seem quite as odd here as it had back on the beach.

And still, Alex couldn’t drop off. His regiment brothers were audibly asleep on the other side of the hold, using the time until the flood set in to get some desperately needed shut-eye, while he lay restless in the damp cold. He tried counting sheep, but the concept seemed so alien and wrong to him that he stopped almost immediately, and focused on the hollow sound of the waves instead. For a while his thoughts got dangerously close to bad territory, and he needed to make an effort to erase the audio-visuals of screaming, drowning men and their bloated corpses that his mind was conjuring up for him.

It helped him to concentrate on the living. He, himself, was among them. Which was a start. So were the rest of the people on this boat: A few good chaps from his regiment. That Gibson person, whoever he was. And Tommy. Tommy, of course, was alive, too.

Alex changed his position until he could see Tommy’s form through the semi-darkness. He was lying just a few feet away, his back turned to Alex, his brown shock of hair uncomfortably bedded on an old sack of grain.

What a weird bloke he was.

His eyes were too soft for this war, for any war, really. But he was still alive, against all odds. Had saved Alex’s life, even. _Soft, but hard where it counts_. The corners of Alex’s mouth curled upwards. He hadn’t entirely lost his talent for bad innuendo yet, at least.

Maybe he’d tell Tommy that one day. _You’re hard where it counts._ Said out loud it would be a terrible line for sure, but Tommy might still laugh about it.

He’d like to see Tommy laugh, when this was all over. They’d meet up then, for a few drinks, talk. Old time’s sake. Alex would make bad puns and even worse innuendos and Tommy would laugh about them until his eyes watered. And then Tommy would accompany him home, through the summer night, for another drink in Alex’s flat. They’d both know that that was an excuse, of course, an excuse for Alex to crowd Tommy against the door once it fell shut behind them, look into his soft, soft eyes and kiss him.

Yes. That would be very nice, indeed.

Even nicer when Tommy would kiss him back and make small, needy sounds in his throat, start tugging at the buttons of Alex’s freshly ironed shirt and suck at his bottom lip. His mouth would be bitten and red by then, his pupils huge and he would smile at Alex, exhilarated, and say, _touch me, please. Touch me. I need it._

Alex’s hand was already halfway down to the ache at his centre, when he realised what he was doing. Desire had crept up on him unannounced, but that hardly counted as a surprise after he’d basically neglected everything that went on below his waistline for the last four weeks at least. What _was_ a surprise, though, was how overpowering it was. Alex swallowed and turned around on his side, towards the dark steel casing and away from Tommy’s sleeping form. Some sick part of him wanted to stop him, make him do it while looking over at Tommy’s hair on the makeshift-pillow, but Alex’s morals – or whatever was left of them – didn’t agree with the sentiment.

When he finally had his trousers open and his spit-slicked hand on his prick for the first time in ages he could hardly suppress a pleased sigh. The imagery of Tommy came back along with the first few tugs and squeezes around his length; but now they were both undressed. Low, warm light reflected on Tommy’s pale skin, while his neck formed an elegant arch that allowed Alex to lick a long line down his throat. He gave a small, breathy groan once Alex’s tongue reached his nipple, just before his lips closed around it and started sucking, wringing more noises…

Alex’s hand abruptly stopped.

It had taken his mind a second to react, lost in his daydreams as he had been, but the groan he’d heard a moment ago hadn’t been a figment of his imagination at all. He was sure of it. Even more so when another quiet sound of pleasure reached his ears from behind him only half a second later, followed by the discreet rustling of heavy fabric.

Blood started rushing in Alex’s ears and he felt his cock grow rock-hard in his fist. His body urged him to keep going, while his fantasy rapidly changed, catapulted itself into a staggering possibility: Tommy, with his hand down his dirty uniform trousers, desperately stroking his cock, strands of hair falling into his shudder-closed eyes as he bit down on his moans... Alex went through a bunch of scenarios in his head, in which he saw himself crawl over and bat Tommy’s hand away, bring him to completion himself, make him come with a barely contained scream, one hand over his mouth so no one would hear; his harsh, hot breath against Alex’s palm. The haze of his approaching orgasm started to gnaw away at his inhibitions, and he found it increasingly difficult to remember why he shouldn’t at least take a look, a quick glance at Tommy’s back. Just to see, if Tommy’s neck was stretched back in pleasure, like Alex imagined it. If his hand was moving as fast as Alex’s now, rushing him to the peak, or if he was more patient to get there. If he was close already or…

Another low moan sounded through the ship, this time almost too loud, and before Alex could think better of it he had turned around.

His jaw dropped in surprise when he saw a pair of hazel eyes looking back at him through the twilight. Tommy had turned around during the last few minutes, too, without Alex noticing, and now he was right _there_. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed pink, his mouth slack in pleasure. There was a hand down his trousers, working him strong and slow, but it wasn’t his own, attached to a slender arm reaching around his waist that belonged to someone whose face remained hidden behind Tommy’s back. Alex didn’t need to see it. He already knew who it was.

His mouth formed _Gibson,_ involuntarily, and he saw his own shock mirrored in Tommy’s expression, when his eyes darted down to Alex’s hand around his still-hard cock, before they moved up to his face again, fixating him, green and brown. Hungry. A split second later he came, throwing his head back, shadows painting his face jagged, while Gibson stroked him through it, and Alex, despite the bitter taste of unasked-for disappointment in his throat, found himself vigorously pushed over the edge as well.

When he could see again, Tommy was still looking at him.

Gibson’s hand had disappeared, and for a second Alex imagined that it had never been there to begin with. That the remnants of lust in Tommy’s eyes were just for him. Reality bit only a moment later when Gibson’s arm came back to wind itself around Tommy’s middle, and Tommy closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

Alex swallowed and turned on his other side again, away from them, before he wiped himself dry as best as he could and zipped his trousers back up. What he had seen hadn’t been meant for his eyes, and he wondered if he might be feeling better now, had he never witnessed it.

The look in Tommy’s eyes just before he had come was still stuck with him. The hunger he had seen there. Maybe that was why Tommy wasn’t dead yet. He hungered for life. Starved for it. They all wanted to survive, sure. Tommy wanted to _live_. Even if he had to do it in the hold of a ship, in the middle of a world war, with a man who never spoke a word.

But Alex understood that. He understood it very well, even though jealousy was etching wounds into the walls of his stomach like acid.

He was hungry, too.

**Author's Note:**

> During the course of this story some of you may have raised a (completely justified) concern - and yes, I do realise that, canonically, Alex learns Gibson's name for the first time by reading his name tag a scene later. For the sake of word-flow, let's imagine that he knew the name already. (Yes, I sacrificed canon-compliance for dramatic, cursive name-dropping. I do that sometimes.)


End file.
